


Wendy & Bishop

by WendyAnon



Category: Emmy The Robot (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyAnon/pseuds/WendyAnon
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

-

>"Good Afternoon, Mr. Bishop. Packages for you."  
>Despite his formal greeting, the doorman seemed somehow less enthused to see you than he normally is. You shake the snow off your coat and pull off your gloves.  
>"Ah, thank you. The robot, I assume?". You can see two large Sterling-branded boxes behind his desk, covered with a sheet.  
>The doorman forces a chuckle. "You'd be correct, sir. Your proof of purchase—" he responds, handing you a blue folder with its distinctive Sterling 'S' with a lifeless smile. You stuff it in your coat for later.  
>Two boxes: The nanny and its docking seat. You walk over to the taller box and push it slightly to gauge its weight. It's... heavier than you assumed, though you didn't consider its weight before you made this purchase. You hardly even know what it's made out of, for Christ's sake. Robots have never been your forte, not like your job makes it easy to like them.  
>...You don't want to bring these upstairs yourself, not after work. You awkwardly laugh.  
>"It's heavy... huh." The doorman's smile loses even more life. He was expecting this, wasn't he. "Oh, I'm sure of it-" he half-heartedly responds.  
>Neither of you want to give up. The standoff probably only lasts a few seconds but it feels like hours. He sighs and strains his smile. "Would you like me to bring these to your apartment, sir?"  
>"Oh, would you? That would be perfect, thank you!" you respond, feigning surprise. You let go of the box and step towards the elevator.  
>"Of course. I'll be up with your packages shortly." He's not even hiding the contempt in his voice. He hates you, he justifiably hates you.  
>"Great, great!" You're already hopping in an elevator. "Merry Christmas!"  
>"Merry Christmas-"  
>You make a mental note to give him a good bonus this year.

>Hours later and you're still unwinding after work, hunched over the kitchen counter drinking your coffee and flipping through the proof of purchase you received. Nora, your 11-year old daughter, is barely doing her homework at the coffee table in the living room, instead fixated on the TV. Your apartment is cluttered and modest by any standard, but it's big enough for just you two.  
>The doorman dropped off your packages at the door hours ago, and you snuck them into a closet with the rest of the presents before Nora noticed. The TV is playing some kids program about a talking robot dog, no doubt sponsored by a robotics company. You couldn't care less, but she seems invested.  
>"Do you think robot dogs would play fetch better than a real one?" she yells to you, eyes still fixed on the screen.  
>You squint at the TV screen, and sure enough, the robot dog is playing fetch, but with rocket boosters to go incredibly fast. "If they're programmed to be better at it, then they'd be better." you respond.  
>Nora leans her head over the couch, staring at you upside-down and frowning. "That's a boring answer..."  
>"They're just robots, angel. They do what they're supposed to do, like a car, or the TV." You point at the robot dog on screen with your cup of coffee.  
>"That's so boring. I bet a robot could've said something nicer than that", she remarks with a smile.  
>You smile back. "We should see if Atlas Industries has some robo-dads for you, then."  
>"Is that my Christmas gift?" Her smile brightened.  
>"That's a secret. You're stuck with me, for now."  
>Nora snickers and returns her attention to her show, satisfied with the interaction. You get back to reading your proof of purchase, settling on a page with a full-page image of your new nandroid  
>>"Your Sterling Robotics™ Android Nanny: WENDY. Physical specifications: BLUE Optics. FALU RED, SHORT BOB Wig. STERLING BLUE STANDARD Nanny Uniform."  
>More specifications, basic instructions, warranty ticket, AEC regulations, legal nonsense. Seems... normal? Why a robot would have hair is a mystery, you think, but you suppose it's cute. Reminds you of your ex-wife.  
>The streetlights outside activate on their timer, along with the Christmas lights wrapped around them. It's a sickening white glow, but they're how you and Nora can tell it's exactly 6 o'clock. She pipes up first: "What's for dinner?"  
>You look around the kitchen, as if dinner will magically appear if you just look hard enough. You don't want to make dinner, as usual. You settle on the coupons and takeout numbers stuck to the fridge with magnets.  
>"Mike's Subs, Bohemia Grill, High Street Deli..." You read off the list of local restaurants as Nora groans in response to every option.  
>She springs up from the couch. "I'm feeling chicken alfredo. Wanna make it?"  
>This time you're the one groaning, "No."  
>"No?"  
>"Nope."  
>"Boring AND lazy-" She says in jest, genuine disappointment still bubbling to the surface.  
>The two of you eventually order food and have dinner. You make enough money to be a bit lazy, you justify in your head. You hope the nandroid will be a good cook.

-  
Part I  
-

>Christmas morning, 5am. A half-dozen presents sit in a circle around the miniature tree Nora picked out. One last thing to pull out-  
>Either your nandroid is heavy or you're weaker than you thought. You hope Nora won't mind the lack of wrapping as you pull the box into the living room.  
>Speaking of Nora: her door swings open, and out skips your daughter in her special Christmas pajamas.  
>Goddamnit. She already didn't believe in Santa but this seals the deal. The box slips from your grasp and hits the floor with a thud. "Nora—!"  
>"Dad!" She shouts, seemingly more pleased to have caught you than anything. She runs into the living room and stops at the nandroid box on its side on the floor. "It's not wrapped-"  
>You sigh in defeat. "Yes, well, Santa had a lot of long days at the union and didn't have time to wrap this one." You tap it with your foot. "Merry Christmas."  
>"Merry Christmas, dad-" Nora awkwardly smiles. You nod in kind.  
>"Want to open the big one first?"  
>She hums a response and gets on her knees, pulling the sheet off the box with gusto.  
>Scanning the box over and over again, she looks at you in confusion. "A robot...?"  
>"A robot! Brand new!"  
>"Don't you... hate robots?"  
>"I don't hate robots, angel, they have their place-"  
>She frowns slightly, but gets back to examining the box. She flips open the front of the box and looks down at the nandroid. "It's pretty!"  
>The nandroid- Wendy. It looks exactly like they do in the Sterling ads all over the city. Just like the specs said, it has dark red hair in a bob, unfortunately messed up in the fall. It looks like a mummy in a sarcophagus.  
>"She's asleep?" She waves her hand in front of the robot's closed eyes. "HEY-! What's wrong with her?" She picks up its arm, which does the trick.  
>A red light activates on its wrist and its optics click open and glow blue, just like its specifications. It sits up in its box and beams at the two of you.  
>"Good morning, Bishop family! My name is Wendy, its my honor to meet you!" It attempts to curtsey in its box, and smiles up at Nora in confusion. "And you must be Nora!"  
>Nora responds with a "Hi Wendy!" and extends a hand, just like you taught her to do when meeting new people. Good girl. Wendy shakes her hand eagerly and stands up, straightening out its skirt and adjusting its hair. It's a whole head shorter than you, much shorter than Eileen was. Is.  
>"So formal! My work here should be easy!" Wendy remarks in amazement.  
>"What's your work?" Nora asks, head cocked in confusion.  
>"Why, that's a good question! I'm here to help your father here take care of you!" It smiles again, eager to recite the script she'd been taught.  
>Nora slowly begins to frown. "Why does he need help?" She mutters. Wendy's smile falters slightly, but is quick to reassure her; "Why, everyone needs a helping hand from time to time! Your father's a very busy man, as I've heard!"  
>This hardly consoles Nora. "Oh... yeah. He's super busy. I'm home alone a lot."  
>"Well, now you'll have me to play with! How does that sound?"  
>"Okay." She looks at you, dejected.  
>"Work has been picking up, I didn't want to leave you alone for hours on end-", you assure her. Wendy looks between the both of you, worried.  
>Nora looks at Wendy and gives a sad smile "So she's like, my playmate?"  
>"Exactly! Your playmate! Isn't that right, Wendy?" you say through gritted teeth, desperate to not have Nora think she's being abandoned. You hope Wendy gets the idea.  
>It seems to understand, nodding at you and clasping its hands together. "We'll have lots of fun together! I'm a pretty cool girl, when you get to know me!" it giggles. A robot calling itself a female... unsettling.  
>Nora looks back at Wendy, curious. "...How old are you?"  
>"I was first activated exactly five months, three days, twenty hours, three minutes, and eighteen seconds ago!" it grins triumphantly. Nora doesn't seem pleased with this answer, though, muttering "Dad..."  
>"It'll be fun, angel, just give it a few days and you'll adjust fine." Your patience is waning.  
>She seems hesitant to respond, looking Wendy up and down. "Is this your replacement mom?" The smile on Wendy disappeared.  
>"Nora. Don't say that." You say with a sigh, silently wishing you hadn't listened to the salesman at the electronics store. "  
>"But dad-"  
>"Nora, Not now." You say sternly. You worried this might happen. You almost feel bad for Wendy, if you thought she could process emotions like this. Nora looks at you, pleading, "Dad, it's okay—". You respond "Nora Bishop. Not now." Your tone hasn't changed. It seems to shut her up, though. Best dad in the world.  
>Wendy finally pipes up, "Think of me as your playmate!" it says triumphantly, but wavering slightly. Why would a robot have discomfort programmed? It puts its hands on Nora's shoulders, beaming at her.  
>Nora looks at Wendy, then you, then back at Wendy. She says, nodding, "Playmate... okay." She looks at you, then Wendy, then you, then back at Wendy. She seems slightly heartened.  
>You put a hand on Wendy's back, cold and hard under the thin cloth of her dress, and force a smile at Nora. "We can discuss this later, let's finish Christmas morning first? I gotta take you to Eileen's at noon."  
>Nora pauses, then nods her head. She grabs Wendy's hand and leads it to the tree for the rest of the presents.  
>The rest of Christmas goes fine. Just fine, though. Wendy mostly stayed quiet, helping Nora unwrap presents and toying with her presents with her. The ride to Eileen's will be awkward.

-


	2. Chapter 2

-

>Christmas Day, 1:30pm. You're on the highway to Eileen's house, getting passed left and right by Chryslus atomic cars, and are expecting a few voicemails from her when you get back home for being so late. Nora spent a half-hour talking to Wendy about all the things she has to do for school, to which Wendy responded "that's a whole lot!" at least four times. She insisted it come with us on the ride to Eileen's house. They're both sitting in the backseat, listening to the Christmas music on the radio. Wendy is humming along.  
>Wendy breaks the silence first. "This is a lovely automobile, Mr. Bishop. Will it be much longer?" It says, leaning in between the front seats to smile at you.  
>"Almost, Wendy. Are you programmed to drive?" You answer with a sigh.  
>It chuckles, shaking its head. "Unfortunately not. However, Sterling Robotics has a state-of-the-art brand new line of chauffer androids for sale!" It smiles again, happy to recite another bit of script it was taught.  
>Dissatisfied with this answer, you give it an awkward smile. "No, I couldn't afford that. You're worth more than this car, you're the most valuable thing I own."  
>It lets out a peep and breaks eye contact, cheek panels activating a soft pink glow. This is new. "You're glowing-" you mutter as you take the exit into Eileen's neighborhood.  
>Wendy pulls back and sits straight in her seat, "It's involuntary!" its quick to respond, hiding the panels behind its hands. Nora leans over and taps them with her finger, cooing, "That's so cooool...".  
>"Are you alright?"  
>"Yes, Mr. Bishop! Color myself flattered, is all!" It assures you, but the panels don't get any less red.  
>"Cute!" Nora pipes up. "It's cute!"  
>"Why?" you ask.  
>"That I'm the most valuable thing you own! It's very-"  
>"No, why do you glow."  
>"Oh! Apologies. It's..." It pauses before forcing a nervous laugh. "Why, I can't say I'm sure why! I'm sure the good folks at Sterling have a reason!"  
>The conversation seems to end there, with a "hmm" from both you and Nora. "And thank you, Nora." Its cheeks slowly fade back to their pale pink.  
>You pull into Eileen's driveway. Her house is much nicer than your apartment, and in a much nicer suburb than your urban landscape. You get mildly jealous every time you see the modern façade and immaculately maintained lawn. Nora is quick to collect her bag and jacket, and Wendy begins to unbuckle, "Mr. Eileen's house is beautiful! Shall we-?" it asks as it opens the car door.  
>You turn around in your seat to face Wendy "No, Wendy, we're not going in. We're just dropping Nora off." Nora nods in agreement, adding that "Mom doesn't wanna see him!" far more cheerfully than is appropriate. She kisses you on the cheek, exchanges her goodbyes and love-yous, and skips into the house. Wendy is sitting in silence in the back, fiddling with its skirt.  
>You decide to talk first: "...Want to ride shotgun?"  
>"Shotgun?" It cocks its head.  
>"Yes, you know, the front seat." You pat the seat next to you.  
>"Oh! This is regional slang! I will remember this for later!" It beams at you. "I would love to *ride shotgun*!" It winks at 'riding shotgun' as if it means something else, then scrambles out of the car and back into the front seat.  
>"Good! Yes, good" you mutter as you pull out of the driveway. Its movements are so human, you think. Nothing like the robots you deal with at work.  
>"So, Mr. Bishop, is there any pertinent information I should know about physical custody of Nora between you and Ms. Eileen?"  
>"Oh, this is pretty infrequent. When Eileen- you call her Ms. Tenenbaum from now on- and I split up we didn't want to involve the courts with Nora, so she stays with me for school and she goes to Eileen's whenever Eileen asks for her." You explain as Wendy nods in exact intervals. One, two, three, nod. One, two, three, nod.  
>Its questions don't end there. "Very mature of the both of you! And how many hours do you typically work? The family assignment brief provided to me didn't say-"  
>"Between fifty and seventy hours. On the higher end, these days."  
>"How busy! May I ask why?"  
>"Just... busy. Boring things. It's just the union, as you know. Boring. Very busy."  
>It laughs to itself. "Of course, Mr. Bishop. Will we be returning home?"  
>You sigh. "No, I should show you the town while we're still out-"  
>"Lovely!" it replies, smiling, before humming to the radio again and looking out the window at the snowfall. Its face is the same soft white as the snow blanketing the suburbs, and its cheeks glow pink once more, reflecting in the car window. Unfortunately for Wendy, you pull onto the highway, where the fluffy white snow gives way to thick brown slush, but it doesn't seem to mind. It's almost... cute. At this angle. 

>True to your word, you show it the town. Nora's school, the grocer, the dry cleaners, even the town hall, which isn't practical for Wendy's purpose, you just think it's a pretty building she- it- would've liked to see.  
>And lastly, the butchers, in Bello-Borgo, the Italian quarter. This city is a hellhole, but this neighborhood is old, strangled by the Atlas Electronics manufactories on the North End and the new public housing in the south, and what little soul can be found in Beacon City is in these brick rowhouses and cluttered streets. On a day like this, everything is quiet and the sidewalks remain unplowed and snowed over, save for when the subterranean trains pass underfoot, pushing hot exhaust out of the subway grates into the chilled air and melting perfect squares of snow. Tranquility, in every sense of the term.  
>Wendy audibly inhales, something that you didn't think it was capable of doing, and looks at its surroundings appreciatively. You pull over instead of your usual drive-by, to which it takes notice: "What are we doing?" it asks, cocking its head at you.  
>"Butchers; I figure we should pick something up for dinner?" You reply, unbuckling and opening the car door.  
>"Oh!" It lights up at the idea, metaphorically and literally, "Of course, Mr. Bishop!" It unbuckles and reaches for the door, but hesitates.  
>"Is there something wrong?"  
>"No, I- do you have the temperature, by chance?"  
>You shake your head, chuckling. "Don't know-?" You stick your hand up into the air for a moment. Rather obviously, its blisteringly cold, and the delicate landscape hides a deceptively chilling wind. Wendy does the same, frowning. "It's cold, definitely." you uselessly remark.  
>Wendy mutters some numbers off to herself. "Is there any chance you have an extra jacket?"  
>"Oh, do you... need one? I didn't think you could..." you gesticulate wildly, "Feel that."  
>It chokes out a laugh, "Unfortunately not. It's not life-or-death, though; I'll be A-okay! Shall we?" It begins to step out of the car.  
>"No-" You reach out and grab Wendy by the arm, pulling it back into its seat. It yips in surprise, staring back at you expectantly as its cheek panels activate its same pink glow. "Take mine." You wriggle out of your greatcoat.  
>"Mr. Bishop, I couldn't! You'd be freezing!" it pleads, cheek panels brightening.  
>"I'm from here, I love the cold!" You hold the coat out to Wendy, smiling. "I insist."  
>It takes your coat, holding it against its chest delicately. Not unlike Eileen used to do when you gave her your coat, but you push that thought out of your head.  
>Finally, the two of you step out of your car and walk down the road to the butchers. You silently regret giving your coat to Wendy, it's bitingly windy out, but you'd never ask for it back, especially with it draped over it's shoulders and it grasping the lapels with it's slender fingers.  
>You walk into the butcher's with Wendy not far behind and are immediately hit with a wall of hot ventilated air. The smell of meat attacks your nostrils, but its better than the cold outside. The butcher, Jacob Volpe, is sitting on a stool behind the counter, stuffing a crossword into his apron pocket and waving you in. The shop is cramped, with little space for neither you nor Wendy nor Jacob, and the walls are covered in mementos, family portraits, religious iconography, and no less than three menorahs. "Look what the cat dragged in! What're you doing here!?" he practically shouts.  
>"Jacob! For meat, what else?"  
>"Buddy, it's a bit too late to get a Christmas ham." He snickers, before taking notice of Wendy standing demurely by the door. "And what's this...?"  
>"That's my present to my daughter-" you say, sighing. You expected some hazing from Jacob about this.  
>"You're shitting me."  
>"Unfortunately not. Say hi, Wendy." you request, exasperated.  
>It waves anxiously. Jacob laughs in disbelief. "Mark 'Bats' Bishop, walking around with some metal abomination. Never thought I'd see the day-"  
>"Yes, well, I'm not here to be judged. Chuck or shortloin, three pounds each." You hope this will put an end to the conversation.  
>He scoffs. "Yes sir. Anything for you and the rottame-" He disappears into the back room, muttering to himself in Italian. You finally bring your attention to Wendy, silently shuttering in the corner.  
>"...Sorry." you mutter, not making any attempt to move closer. Why are you apologizing to a robot? You shouldn't care about robots.  
>Wendy gives a tentative laugh, making sure Jacob isn't listening. "It's quite... alright." It pulls your coat off its shoulders. "He's a character, is all. It would be immature of me to not expect this sort of response to my presence."  
>"Yes, I suppose. Are you gonna be alright?"  
>"Yes, Mr. Bishop-" it says, frown deepening, "May I ask why he was so shocked at your having an android?" Great, the one question you didn't want to answer.  
>You begin to stutter out some half-assed response, but Jacob interrupts you, carrying a large paper bag.  
>"You were lucky, Bats. Chuck and shortloin. Comes out just over sixty dollars."  
>"That's, no, three pounds each is forty-" you reason.  
>"Prices went up." He simply says, as if warning you not to ask further. You begrudgingly reach for your wallet, but Jacob can't help but push it further: "Do the boys at the N.C.L. know yet?"  
>"No." You hand him the money.  
>"Yeah? Wonder why!" He snickers again, printing your receipt. "You don't mind if I let them know, do you? After all, transparency is the best policy for a boss like yourself." He stuff the receipt in the bag and pushes it towards you. "Merry Christmas."  
>You snatch the bag, grumble some goodbye, then march towards the door, grabbing Wendy by the arm as you leave. "Riporta quella cosa e la rottamerò io stesso!" Jacob shouts as the door slams shut. You pull your coat back over Wendy, who quietly walks back to the car.

-


	3. Chapter 3

-

>Three weeks have passed since the Christmas butcher incident, not like the boys at work let you forget.  
>You and Wendy have been getting along great, meanwhile on the first day back from New Years you were greeted at work with dozens of voicemails from your workers, ranging from mild teasing to "I'm gonna gut you and your robot you traitor piece of shit"— the NCL isn't very kind to robot owners, especially within their own ranks.  
>Not that it's unjustified, though. After decades of legislation relegating AI to mindless blue collar work and out of more sophisticated work for being 'too volatile', the Android Ethics Commission, eternally in the pocket of the robot industry, ruled that companies like Sterling and Atlas had become advanced enough to replace men in the any workforce. Since then, unions have been in an eternal losing battle against the march of time and the affordability of the robot worker. Jobs once thought irreplaceable by machines— teachers, salesmen, nurses, managers, engineers, architects, and countless others— rapidly began being outdone and outperformed by AI. Millions have become jobless, and millions more have found their wages lowered to remain competitive against androids who need not receive payment.  
>And in the center of this turmoil is the Newburgh Congress of Labor, seemingly the only organization in the state willing to stand up for the everyman, led by you, Mark 'Bats' Bishop, who now is seemingly reversing his pro-worker stance because he doesn't want to deal with his daughter and doesn't want to fork up the money for a human nanny.  
>This is a PR nightmare. You're practically hiding in your sparsely-decorated office (save for a few pro-union, anti-droid posters), burying your face into your hands when your receptionist sticks her head through your doorframe.  
>She clears her throat audibly to announce her entrance. "Mark, call for y-"  
>"If it's another newspaper or angry rep, tell them I'm out of the office." You snap, exhausted by the idea of having to defend yourself again.   
>"It's your daughter's school."  
>"Oh-" you mutter, "Send it though." You hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder and scribble on your notepad anxiously.  
>There's a long pause from the receiver, then a white noise, then the usual voice: "Good morning, MR. BISHOP, this is Abigail from Westfort Middle School, calling about your child, NORA DOROTHY BISHOP." The natural female voice drops whenever specific information is given, and in its place is the metallic voice of an early-model secretary android.  
>"What's wrong with Nora? Did she get in another fight?"  
>"tzzt No, your child was not involved in a physical altercation." There's a pause and another white noise between pre-recorded voice lines. "tzzzzt Your child reported to the nurses office today and is requesting you pick her up."  
>You groan into the receiver, flipping through your schedule to the current day— sure enough, completely full schedule. You groan louder, getting the attention of your secretary.  
>"I'm sorry, MR. BISHOP, I'm afraid I didn't underst-"  
>You cut it off: "I can't come down, I'm busy at least until the end of the school day."  
>The white noise again. "tzzzzzzt I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't allow your child to leave without a guardian signing off."  
>You groan into the phone a third time, muttering "Okay, alright. Thank you Abigail. Is that all?"  
>"tzzzzt Yes. Have a wonderful day, MR. BISHOP." Click! You miss the human secretary at Nora's elementary school. How the times change. Your secretary leans back into your office.  
>"Something wrong, Mark?"  
>"No, it's- any chance we can reschedule the meeting with the teamsters?"  
>She scoffs at the idea, "This late? No chance, Pat's probably on his way already." She replies flippantly. At least Abigail is more polite, you think with a sigh. Plan B: you call your apartment.  
>The phone is answered almost instantly, and the whir of a vacuum cleaner assaults your ears. "Bishop Residence, Wendy speaking!" she shouts over the vacuum.  
>"It's Mark, I need you to pick up Nora for me."  
>"Oh! But- isn't she at school?" She turns off the vacuum. You think back to the first time she tried to turn that vacuum on and the horrible sputtering sound it made from years of disuse.  
>"Yes, but she's sick."  
>Wendy gasps, "Oh, that's awful! What's the matter??" She sounds as horrified as if you told her Nora was dead.  
>"It's not bad-bad, I just need you to pick her up. Pick her up, get her home, make her soup, get her to bed. I'll be home around seven, okay?" You assure her, glancing at the illustration of a copdroid beating labor organizers with the caption 'FREEDOM ISN'T FREE' hanging on your wall.  
>Wendy mutters the orders you gave. "Mhm! Will that be all?"  
>You ruminate on this. "Pick up corned beef on the way, Nora likes reubens."  
>"Can do! I'll see you tonight, Mr. Bishop!"  
>"I'll see you then. Thanks Wendy." You gently hang up, smiling softly. Despite the backlash from your workers, you've come to appreciate Wendy in the house more than you expected. You've missed a feminine presence in the house, and her positivity seems to have rubbed off on both you and Nora. Work is hell, but home life has been... good. Great, even. This train of thought is interrupted by your secretary informing you of some phone conference you're dreading. Back to work.

>Focus, Wendy, focus. You're repeating the list of tasks Mr. Bishop gave you over and over as you walk inside the new market. Corned beef, pick up Nora, get Nora home, make soup, Nora to bed. You may have been programmed for these sorts of tasks, but better safe than sorry, you reason. Be the best gosh-darned nanny you can be.  
>Due to your inability to drive, you're forced to walk to both the school and the market. Mr. Bishop forbade you from going to the butcher's again after that incident, so you've head to a market out of the way for corned beef.  
>The market was beautiful, sleek lines and clean white interior abounding. Sure enough, these new-fangled super-markets have a butcher, a baker, a photo developer; just about everything! You even bought your corned beef from an especially chipper male android. It's so modern in here, it's hard to believe that your typical scenery in the urban jungle is in the same century. You bound out of the store with your bag and off to Nora's school!  
>The air is harsh. If you had proper lungs they would be aching with the bite of the January frost. The Sterling raincoat provided to you doesn't come close to protecting you, so you've been wearing Mr. Bishop's extra coat, collar flipped up to warm your neck as best as possible. You jingle the leftover change from the market in your pocket.  
>Nora's school, in all it's postconstructivist glory. Architecture has always been a fascination of yours, and this city is a treat. You march up the steps repeating exactly what you plan to say to the receptionist: Good morning, my name is Wendy, I'm here on behalf of Mr. Bishop to pick up his daughter Nora, whom I've been informed is sick. Too formal. Hiya! I'm Wendy, here to pick up Nora for her dad Mark. Too informal. Hello! I'm Wendy, I'm here to-  
>Sitting at the receptionist desk is not a woman as you expected, but a robot. A rather early-model one, at that. Hardly humanoid. Instantly your anxiety is gone. It turns its brass-plated head to you and mimics a smile.  
>"tzzzzzt Hello and welcome to Westfort Middle School! I am Abigail, I will be assisting you today. What can I help you with?"  
>You beam back at her. "Hey Abigail! How're you today?"  
>She stares at you blankly as it processes what you've said. "tzzzzzzzt Wonderfully! It is... TWENTY-THREE DEGREES FAHRENHEIT today. I love the snow. And yourself?" She's cute, in a way. Like a three-legged dog.  
>"Wonderful myself! Thank you for asking!"  
>"tzzt Of course! Now, how may I assist you today?"  
>"Oh, well, I'm here to pick up my daughter Nor-" You clam up, silently cursing yourself for not sticking to your script, "-My child Nora. I'm here for- she's not my daughter, I can't do that, it's- you know." You ball your hands into fists, cheek panels flushing.  
>"tzzt I don't know! You're here to pick up your daughter?"  
>You sigh in defeat. "Sure, yes- mhm. My daughter. Nora."  
>"tzzzzt Wonderful! May I have your first and last name?"  
>"Wendy."  
>"WENDY. What a wonderful name!" Abigail nods and writes this down, but hovers over the last name section, frowning. She looks back up at you. "tzzzzzzzzzt May I have your first and last name?"  
>"I, uhm... Wendy Bishop?"  
>Her same script starts back up. "WENDY BISHOP. What a wonderful name!" she nods and writes the name in a ledger. Mr. Bishop is not going to like this if he hears about it, you think. "Your daughter, NORA BISHOP, was admitted to the nurse's office. Let me retrieve her for you." She types a message on an Atlas telex machine, then stares into dead space.  
>It takes a few minutes for Nora to arrive at the front office, skipping and humming the theme song to her favorite TV show. She stops in her tracks when she sees you. "Wendy-! where's mom? Or dad?" She hunches over and mock coughs.  
>"Hiya Nora! Dad's stuck at work right now, I'm here to pick you up!"  
>She vacantly nods in response, hobbling to Abigail and signing a release form. "You gotta sign this-"  
>"Oh, I didn't-" You look to Abigail for guidance, but she's just typing away at a terminal. You make some poor attempt at a signature. "Thank you, Abigail." She doesn't reply. You give her a tentative pat on the head and walk Nora out.

>The two of you begin the walk home in relative silence, Nora failing to keep up her pretend limp and cough.  
>"You're not really sick, are you?" You ask with a chuckle.  
>She looks up at you and sighs, fiddling with her thick brown hair. "No, this bit works on dad-"  
>"Really?"  
>"Really."  
>You spit out a laugh, dumbfounded. "But it's so bad—!"  
>"It's not that bad! Shut up!" She socks you in the side, completely dropping the sick act.  
>"You ran into the office singing! No way that works on Mr. Bishop!"  
>"Well, dad is dumb sometimes, y'know." She snatches your hand and leads you down a road in the opposite direction of home.  
>"Don't say that, he's- what're- where are we going?"  
>"Gross, don't defend your boyfriend just cause you like him." She protests, intentionally not answering your second question. Your cheek glow involuntarily, a feature of yours you've begun to dislike.  
>"Don't- that's silly. I work for Mr. Bishop, you- we're not like that. C'mon-" This isn't the first time Nora's teased you like this, you'd think you get used to it now.  
>"Is that so, Mrs. Bishop?"  
>"Oh hush, I just needed a last name!" This feels almost gossipy, like you used to do with Mindy in Nandroid School. You miss her at times like this.  
>"The nurse said my mom was here to pick me up—" she says, smile faltering, "So I knew something wasn't right."  
>"Is that so?"  
>"Mhm, mom doesn't do stuff like that. It's not like... bad... or anything. She's just busy, y'know?"  
>"Of course." You mutter, giving your best consolidating smile. Nora's acting ability is piss-poor, in both pretending to be sick and downplaying her sadness at her mother's behavior. "...Where are we going?"  
>"Almost here! It's a shortcut!" The ability of the Bishop family to only enjoy visiting the sketchy neighborhoods is uncanny, you think. Brownstones, busy streets, and the occasional poster or graffiti saying things like 'ANTI-ATLAS, ANTI-ROBOT, ANTI-NPD' or 'ATLAS DOGS TOOK OUR JOBS'. People can be such negative Nancies, you think.  
>Thankfully, Nora pulls you inside a mall, to which you would be more upset if you weren't distracted by the marvelous conflicting organic and geometric forms of the Mid-Century Modern architectural design. Maybe a detour wouldn't be so bad, you think as you examine the minimally-ornamented hallways and food court.  
>Nora leads you around, pointing out stores that she dislikes and explaining why, until she settles on a neon-soaked arcade. The design isn't worth mentioning, and the flashing lights and synth music overstimulates all your sensors, but Nora seems so happy that you don't say anything at first. You curse yourself for being such a pushover.  
>"What do you wanna play first?" Nora asks, pulling out a bag of quarters you presume she had just for this occasion and stepping up to a machine, answering her question for you.  
>"Nora, I have direct orders from Mr. Bishop to get you home", you reason, "C'mon, I have to start dinner prep soon anyhoo." You hold up your paper bag from the market. The list you were given repeats in your head again— corned beef, pick up Nora, get Nora home, make soup, Nora to bed.   
>"But I'm not sick!" she protests as her arcade machine starts up, engaging it's chiptune theme song and bright vector graphics.  
>You follow, "Sick or not, Nora, I need to... get you..." the flashing technicolor of the monitor distracts you, "...did you just blow up that tank?"  
>"Yeah-!" She shouts with braggadocio, trying to replicate her last move to impress you, dying in the process, eliciting a guttural shout. "Here, you play!" She motions to the player two joystick and buttons  
>You don't want to, but you do. But you don't. But maybe? Your multi-agent planning software is struck between two conflicting human's orders, one the superior of the other, but the other making a more immediate request, though the disobeying of one command may go unpunished and unseen. You feel like a supervillain, conniving like this, and a lingering sense of dread overwhelms you as you step up to the cabinet, as if some unknown covenant has been broken.  
>You try to push that feeling out of your mind. You and Nora spend an unknown amount of time at the arcade, playing every machine with the same childlike wonder as the last one and pretending not to notice the stares at a nandroid playing an arcade cabinet. By the time you two leave, it's already dark out.  
>The two of you walk back with hardly a care in the world. The rest of your time together goes without a hitch; You got Nora home, you made soup, and you got Nora to 'bed' (or as anyone else would call it, a blanket fort in the living room), and reubens for dinner just as Mr. Bishop asked.  
>By the time Mr. Bishop comes home from work Nora's already passed out under four layers of blankets and pillows. You assemble him dinner and join him at the dinner table.  
>"Everything go smoothly today?" He asks mid-bite, disinterested.  
>"Yes sir!"

-


	4. Chapter 4

-

>"Little bit to the left."  
>You adjust. "Is that sufficient?"  
>The wooden dinner chair you're standing on creaks. You hope to god there's no scuffs in the floor from Mr. Bishop dragging it over to the wall.  
>"Hmm..." he ruminates on this, "to the right a bit."  
>Nat King Cole's 'Day In Day Out', your favorite holotape, fills the air between sentences, making it difficult to listen to orders over the big band orchestra.  
>"That's almost it. To the left, just a touch-" he squints at your work, scratching the scruff of his neck in concentration.  
>Just outside, a truck cut off by a fancy new nuclear coupe blares its horn in frustration, screaming into your apartment through the open windows to let the crisp late March breeze waft in and rustling the pile of unopened mail at the writing desk.  
>"Aaaand... perfect!" Mr. Bishop elates, "That's perfect!"  
>You beam at him and give him two thumbs up, then hop down off the chair to appreciate your work next to him.  
>A family portrait, now perfectly level: Nora Bishop, the beaming young daughter, sitting on an ornate wooden stool, then Mister Mark Bishop, the handsome father, standing behind her in his best suit, hand on her shoulder, and you, Wendy, whatever you are to this family, standing beside him in a your formal black uniform. You all look happy. Content.  
>You lean into Mr. Bishop's side, satisfied with the completion of this menial task. "It looks great-" you quietly remark.  
>"Could do with a better frame, maybe. Brown instead of black might-" he stops himself, remembering his decision to be more positive, "It looks great. Thank you, Wendy." he proclaims, leaning into you in kind.  
>If you squint at this scene, it looks like newlyweds basking in the glow of their new family, though perhaps your wishful thinking is getting the better of you again. The birth of a new entity, of a single unit: us. You can only pray Mr. Bishop feels the same way, but the brusqueness with which he pivots and tosses you off his shoulder makes the thermocouples in your radioisotope facsimile of a heart drop. He means well, you think. He isn't a mind reader.  
>He drops into his seat at the kitchen table staring into the middle-distance and leisurely adjusting his, to which you hastily retrieve the chair from the wall and clear the table for him. He simply nods in acknowledgement, lost in thought as the holotape transitions into 'Aren't You Glad You're You'. His forefinger digs into the crook of his thumb.  
>He seems to snap out of it. "Do you like dressing the same every day?"  
>For the amount of concentration he seemed to have needed, you're almost disappointed at such a mundane question. "...I can't say I think about it much, Mr. Bishop, it's just how I've been taught to be." You fiddle with the frills of your apron, breaking eye contact.  
>"Hmm." He replies, blankly nodding, clearly dissatisfied with this answer. "You should think about it."  
>The vagueness of this suggestion leaves you nonplussed. You get to your work loading the dishwasher, yanking your rubber gloves on and feeling his eyes on your back. "Why do you ask?" you ask after a time.  
>"Well..." he stands up from his seat and gesticulates wildly, one of his many Bishop-isms you've learned means 'I'm embarrassed to ask this' or 'how do I put this', as is more likely. "You've been in my wardrobe, I assume?"  
>"Yes? Is something in there not to your liking?" You're almost offended at the idea that you've done something wrong, but are careful not to show it.  
>"No, not-" he chokes out a laugh. "You do the laundry fine, better than me or Nora could do. Actually, it's pretty funny, back when Nora-"  
>"I've been in your wardrobe, Mr. Bishop" you interject, pretending to focus on the dishes.  
>"Oh- yes. So Eileen, we used to live here together when we had Nora, so it was us three."  
>"Sounds cozy to me!"  
>"Well, it made more sense for the space. She didn't sleep in a big chair in the closet, for one-" he chuckles.  
>"I love my closet!" you punctuate with manufactured excitement.  
>"Yes, well, you don't need much room, I... assume. Eileen slept in the master bedroom, clearly, so-" he gesticulates again with a flustered exhalation. "So as you know, I still have some of Eileen's old clothes."  
>Your predictive reasoning software clicks. "Oh, Mr. Bishop, I couldn't-"  
>"I insist." He joins you at the sink, gently taking the plate you're drying out of your hands, the tenderness of which makes your cheeks flush. "The dishes will be here when you get back, let me just show you them." he hums. You couldn't say no to him even if you wanted to. The holotape's music fades out, leaving only the abrupt sounds of the city to crash in through ajar windows.  
>You pull off your gloves and stuff them in your apron as he leads you into his bedroom. It's far cleaner than it used to be, a fact that fills you with righteous pride. He swings open his armoire, still perfectly divided between his and his ex-wife's.  
>The melancholy of the image washes over you: the divorcee holding onto his ex-wife's clothing, waiting for something to do with it other than just throw it out. You'd try and hug him if he didn't seem so oblivious to how he looks in this moment, eagerly sifting through decade-old mementos of a failed marriage.  
>"Here!" He pulls out a sleeveless green house dress and presents it to you. You just... don't have it in you to say no. He wants it of you, and you want to try. You take the dress with a smile.  
>"It looks lovely!" You beam. "Will it fit?"  
>"You and Eileen are both tiny, it'll be close enough-" He pets the back of your hair as he meanders out of the room, his large yielding hands electrifying the nape of your neck. "You change right now, I'll be in the kitchen!" He scans you up and down, then shuts the door.  
>This isn't... normal, right? Owners mustn't typically treat their nannies like this, you think. You met a nandroid at the market weeks back who said she had a whole room to herself, but you weren't taught how to react to this request; being given clothing must be unusual.  
>Examining the house dress more, your feelings to this situation turns on a dime: forest green with brown plaid, white trim and a peter pan collar, and a coordinated brown belt to match. You scold yourself for being so harsh to Mark at first blush— this is a good thing. It's a beautiful dress, not the dress of a maid but a housewife. The thought elates you to levels you never thought possible, that he thinks of you more than his maid! What joy, you think as you fall on his bed with a sigh and begin to undress.

>You click back on the holotape player, repeating the playlist with 'Unforgettable' to come down from your nervous high, eyes snapping between your bedroom door and the clock, counting the seconds before Wendy comes out.  
>The idea to have her try on Eileen's clothes came to you days ago, you just didn't have the stones to ask it until now. Wendy is, after all, the woman in the house, having her in a dress is no different than her uniform, you think to yourself, defending your actions to an imaginary accuser.  
>An unknown mental threshold is passed, and with that your brain starts picking up again. This is unhealthy, you know it is Mark. If you had a therapist they'd be slapping you for this. Thankfully, your distraction is quick to arrive.  
>The bedroom door creaks open. "Okay, I'm changed-" she squeaks.  
>"Oh?"  
>She pushes the rest of the door open and steps out, arms clinging to herself, cheeks and optics beaming, grinning like an idiot. The dress clings to her ball-joint hips, the belt cinches her tiny waist, and the oversized bust leaves the slightest gap between the fabric and pale of her flat chest perfectly. "So..?"  
>"Wow-" Lots of things to say and no way to say it.  
>"Wow is right! Fits me like a glove!" She tugs the dress skirt down over the unpainted grey metal of her knees. "Pretty neat, huh?"  
>"Neat- yes. Neat!" You clasp your hands together, attempting to hide your awe. She's nearly there, you think. "You look great!"  
>"Thank you, Mr. Bishop. Really." She gives an ardent smile, the kind of smile you didn't think you'd see from anyone after the divorce.  
>"Can you part your hair to the side for me?" you politely request.  
>"What?"  
>"Just... please." Your desperation cracks through, stuttering your words and making her enthusiasm falter. Despite this, she complies.  
>You scan her up and down. She looks like Eileen. The vibrant Eileen, the high school sweetheart Eileen you proposed to over brunch a decade ago, the nurturing Eileen before Nora was born and before work got longer and before you stopped being adventurous and before you stopped listening. A million memories flood in and slosh against the sides of your brain— the last time Eileen wore this dress was six years ago for a date night, where you two talked about the hurricane in the news that week, and how scared she was of the ocean.  
>"Mr. Bishop, are you alright?" You hardly noticed how your face contorted and your eyes glazed over as you remembered how Eileen used to look at you when you came home every night. Wendy crouches down next to your chair and puts a hang on your knee, a pale delicate hand, a hand you can pretend is human if you squint your eyes and don't pay attention to the automaton hum of her innards.  
>"Call me Mark."  
>She looks confused, exalted, expectant. "Mark...?"  
>Your emotions get the best of you. You snatch Wendy by the arm and pull her up into a whimpering hug, head buried in her neck and hair. Hands clammy, breath ragged, pit in your stomach imploding, you let out a pathetic groan in trying to vomit out the brackish brown-grey thoughts that swirl in your skull. Wendy slings her arms around your neck, dumbfounded, stuttering incomplete consolations on incomplete information. What she was supposed to do was beyond you, but the idea of sitting there and letting you mope was not what you wanted. "Shhhhh, shhhhhh" she coos, "It's okay Mark, it's okay". She doesn't know what she's talking about, but that's okay. You nestle your head further into the crook of her cold neck, inhaling the ambrosial hospital-clean scent of her synthetic hair.  
>The two of you sit like this, wrapped up together, mess of arms and whines and shushes, listening to the holotape for a time. The last time you were hugged this tenderly by a woman was six years ago, in winter. Nothing was said, nothing was tangibly done, but by the time she pulls away, collar of her dress stained with your spit or drool or whatever humor causes grief, you feel lighter. Not better, but lighter. The wastewater memories still float in your brain, calmed yet not drained. You say the only thing you can think of: "Thank you, I'm sorry, thank you, I'm sorry" the chant you repeat, consoling yourself more than her. She just coos, shushing you as she did before and tracing her hand up and down your back, comforting. You feel weak.  
>"Are you alright, Mark?" she peeps, breaking her mantra.  
>"Yes, I- thank you." You stammer, sniffling and twitching.  
>"Do you want to talk about it?"  
>You consider this. The dress, Eileen, the divorce, loneliness, losing your golden years; these aren't things you want to talk about now.  
>"No."  
>"Oh-" she's clearly shocked, as if not expecting you to decline. Her hunched over, concerned posture straightens as the worry intensifies in her voice again. "Well, alrighty."  
>You make an attempt to reassure; "Please don't worry. It's-" you gesticulate, scrambling for an excuse, "Work. Work things."  
>"Work... things..." She seems wary to accept this answer. "Is money going to be an issue?" Bingo! Perfect cover.  
>You force a stress sigh. "That's what I'm afraid of." Work has been fine since the nandroid scandal blew over. If anything, things have been going better than they have in years.  
>"Oh, geez, I'm so sorry. I can only imagine-" She stands up fully now, using your shoulder as a steady as she lifts herself off her knees.  
>"Things'll be fine, I promise." Lying through your teeth is coming so easy that it almost worries you. "I'll do what I can for you and Nora."  
>She laughs quietly as she returns to the kitchen sink to attend to the neglected dishes, still wearing the house dress. "You're too good for us." She's worried, but the hope in her voice shines through her pearl-white smile.  
>"I try my best." you reply with a laugh in kind.  
>"...Mark?"  
>"Yes, Wendy?"  
>"If something else is wrong, you'll tell me, won't you?"  
>"Of course."

-


	5. Chapter 5

-

>At many points in your job at the Newburgh Congress of Labor, the same thought strikes you, a thought that has only increased with time as you and Wendy grow closer over the months: Why am I here? What am I doing in a job that lost its luster years ago? A job where everyone hates you? What's stopping you from getting up and leaving right now?  
>"And what in the Sam Hill does the Androids Ethics Commission have to do with my men getting overtime?" His fists slam into your desk as he looms over you, Appalachian drawl spitting. Patrick Starcher, head of the teamsters, that's what's stopping you. He's always been a thorn in your side, in no small part to his inability to follow basic directions.  
>You explain it once over as if talking to a child. "Pat, like I said, it's beyond me. You signed the agreement with GR even after I told you not to. I told you this months ago. The fine print said everything; Subpart E on computer employees-" You point to a highlighted line on top of a pile of papers on your desk.  
>He looks at you, furious, then down at the papers. "They're factory line workers, you goddamn peckerwood, not-"  
>Whatever 'peckerwood' means is not for you to know. You cut him off; "That's where the AEC comes in. They would be line workers, union pay, all that good stuff, but the AEC ruled that employees in robot factories would be considered skilled workers, which-" you tap another highlighted section "Do not get overtime, under the contract you signed."  
>He looks at you dumbfounded before diving into the papers himself, reading the highlighted sections. "Bastards, bastards, bastards-" he mutters, anger in his voice building.  
>"They're bastards, Pat, they're bastards. They're bastards you signed a contract with without understanding it."  
>He looks like he wants to hit you. "Have some goddamn decency, Bats. We all know what side you're rooting for, but pretend you give a rat's-"  
>"What am I rooting for exactly, Patrick?" you interject.  
>He smirks, eager to answer. "Sirius, GR, Sterling, whatever slave-driving megacorp made your walking fleshlight. Don't act like we forgot."   
>"Insulting me isn't making your job any easier."  
>"Working for some degen isn't making it easier, either."  
>"Learn to read a contract before you get wise with me, Pat. Get out of my office."  
>He turns, throwing your papers off your desk and storming out, not before shouting, "You'll hear from me again, you prick!"  
>You'd call security for that little stunt if you didn't think they'd take his side. You're almost used to having these sorts of insults hurled at you nowadays, but hell, you make more money than any of them, you're learning to let them have their hissyfits without taking it personally.  
>Your secretary scuttles through your door in the wake of Pat's dramatic exit.  
>"Mark, Beacon City Star here for you."  
>The last thing you wanted to hear. "What does the press need from us this time-" you groan.  
>"Something about the industrial fire down in Atwater, they want a comment on the workers getting snubbed since they're with the ILU." She says in complete monotone, as if insulting you for not knowing this already. "And you've got a lunch at one with Jorge with the Comms Committee, then you gotta balance the books at four."  
>With every word that came out of her mouth your stamina lessened, and by the time she’s finished your head is on your desk, exhausted by the prospect of everything listed. "Is that all...?"  
>"Scheduled, yes, but after we do finances you really need to start-"  
>"I think I'm going to take my lunch early." you finally pipe up.  
>"What?"  
>You pick your head up and gather your papers. "I'm going to be going out for lunch now." You reach for your telephone. "I'm the boss, this is an executive decision. I'll be back later."  
>Your secretary sighs in frustration. "Mark, don't be dumb."  
>"Stall, take a day off of your own, I don't care. I'm going to lunch, thank you." You shoo her out of your office, turning your attention to the dial tone and her voice:  
>"Bishop Residence, Wendy speaking!" You can't help but smile upon hearing her, that same scripted line she uses in exact tone.  
>"It's Mark, how're you holding down the fort?"  
>"Mark!" The excitement in her voice is palpable. "Everything's good, I finished potting those begonia flowers like you asked, I was just about to unwind for a bit. Do you need me to pick something up again?"  
>"No, just checking you're alright."  
>"Oh you goof! Checking up on me-"  
>"Want to go out with Nora?" You start flipping through restaurant addresses and numbers on a rolodex.  
>"Isn't Nora at school...?"  
>"I'll pick her up early, I want to go somewhere."  
>"Oh? How does the park sound?"   
>"I was thinking a lunch place, actually-" you protest.  
>Wendy huffs. "Mark, it's eleven in the morning, you ate a full breakfast three hours ago, you're spending money out of boredom."  
>You didn't expect that answer, especially from her. "Damn, Wendy-"  
>"I read a book on fiscal responsibility! I'll bring pigs in a blanket!"  
>The lie you told last week still weighs heavy on you. Lying about financial instability to hide a more uncomfortable truth isn't the worst lie you've told, but it's the first one you've told to Wendy.  
>You look to your right; your family portrait, you and Nora and Wendy. That picture frame was a gift from your brother-in-law, simple wood with painted squares, originally protecting a photograph of you and Eileen on a camping trip. You hold the portrait delicately, examining your expression, an older smile on an older face. A new figure in an old frame. "That sounds great, Wendy, thank you. Taipei Memorial Park?"  
>"Lovely, I'll see you and Nora there!" Click! You sigh in relief, eagerly collecting your briefcase and coat.

>The park is bustling with spring commotion, city folk celebrating the sunshine after months of frigid winter. You and Nora are sitting at a fountain, more an abstract statue coincidentally spouting water and representing American-British bravery in some battle you weren't a part of. Nora is dipping her hands in the water.  
>"Hiya, Bishop family~!" Wendy shouts across the fountain in sing-song, picnic basket in hand and dressed in a flower-patterned sundress, one of your topcoats, and a sunhat. She looks like a spring catalog— effervescent. The attention from strangers is not unnoticed, though, and she politely apologizes to park-goers in any direction.  
>Nora springs up with a "Wendy!" and runs to her side. You linger, watching the two of them chitter like old friends as they walk around to meet you, smile building on your face. Nora looks so happy with her.  
>Wendy places a hand on your shoulder and her basket in your lap, "Hey skipper, did you want to eat here at the fountain?" she asks with a smile.  
>You look back at the statue, its spouting water from what can only be described as a gaping maw, recalling the news articles you read years ago about soldiers resorting to eating stray dogs and rats in Taipei. "No-"  
>"Good, this fountain gives me the creeps!" She tugs at your coat. "There's a thicket Nora likes with trees to climb, right?"  
>"Hell yeah!" Nora pipes up, wiping her hands dry on her skirt. "We found it last week!" She grabs Wendy's free hand and begins walking, boasting that "It's kinda hard to find, I'll show you." Wendy follows quickly behind, playfully waving you on and leaving you to carry the basket.  
>The 'thicket' is little more than a ring of trees around a patch of dirt— far from pretty, but away from the crowds that'd flash dirty looks at a nandroid presumably stealing a human maid's job. Funnily enough, even as you watch her set out her picnic blanket and smooth out her flowing dress over her porcelain-white thighs, you can't find a fault in that argument. Wendy beckons you to sit beside her as Nora makes a beeline for one of the trees. "Don't go too high!" You're quick to shout as you join Wendy. Nora gives a thumbs up behind her back as she runs.  
>"She'll go as high as she likes." Wendy corrects, pulling out a thermos and procuring a wrapped plate of, true to her word, pigs in a blanket. "I brought the leftover casserole for you, too." She taps her basket.  
>"My hero-" You toy with the wrapping and dig in.  
>"How's work been?" she asks, optics intently watching Nora.  
>You were so enveloped in watching Wendy and enjoying your food you hardly considered you'd have to speak. "Fine, why?"  
>"You seem aloof, is all."  
>"I always seem aloof." you chuckle.  
>Wendy chitters, taking off her sunhat and adjusting her hair. "Adds to your charm— looking good Nora!— your aloof charm. Dark and mysterious." Nora waves from the tree. You and Wendy both wave back.  
>"Yeah?" These pigs in a blanket are exactly the sort of childishly indulgent food you needed. "Work's been exhausting."  
>Wendy's smile shifts from lighthearted to concerned with such exacting clarity, internal emotive presets. She scootches closer until her metal thigh presses against your own. "Wanna talk about it or wanna take your mind off it?"  
>You've never heard that question before. Do you actually want to talk about it? "Take my mind off it."  
>"Of course-" She rests her head against your shoulder. "Nora's been doing better at school."  
>"Oh yeah?"  
>"Mhm!" she nods, "She got a B+ on her last history exam!"  
>You nod in kind. "Attagirl— your tutoring is paying off."  
>"I try my best-" she giggles "-hey Nora!"  
>Nora sits on a branch near the top, leaning against the spotted grey and brown trunk of the sycamore. "I can see the whole city!" she shouts down.  
>"Neat! Who was the first Holy Roman Emperor?" Wendy voice cracks trying to match Nora's volume.  
>"Charles Martel!" Nora eagerly responds.  
>"No, that's-" Wendy looks back to you, embarrassed, "She's not Honor Roll yet, I'll say that much."  
>"She'll get there." You nudge Wendy, reassuring. She nestles further into your shoulder.  
>Time passes, finishing lunch and watching Nora enjoying herself, who eventually eats her lunch and passes out on the picnic blanket at your feet. She has your smile. You think about nothing as Wendy cleans up the picnic, just tranquility.  
>"Good lunch?"  
>You hardly process the question. "Absolutely, thank you Eileen."  
>Immediately you realize your mistake, waking you up in an instant. She sits up. "Eileen?" Wendy asks, pointed, in disbelief.  
>"Sorry, Wendy- thank you Wendy. I meant-"  
>"She's on your mind a lot, isn't she?" She sounds almost... resigned. As if expecting this to happen. She picks her sunhat off the ground and holds it tight to her chest.  
>You're stuck between the truth and comforting Wendy. "No, it's just- we're- she is the mother of my child, Wendy." you gesture to Nora, thankfully sound asleep for this argument.  
>"Nora's eleven, Mark. She had your kid eleven years ago."  
>You run your fingers through your hair in stress. "She was my wife! It's not like I could just forget-"  
>"Four years ago, I don't-" She inhales, cutting herself off. "It was a long time ago, Mark."   
>You find yourself wanting to defend yourself more with every refutation. "We were together since high school."  
>"I know, I know- I'm sorry, just- I understand." She pulls her hat on, hiding her face from your view. "I just thought things would be different by now."  
>"Different?" You're hesitant to even ask for clarification, unsure what her response will be.  
>She sighs, shaking her head behind her hat. "Just... different. I don't know, I'm sorry, you just need to think about it. How things could be different. Please." She looks up at you for a moment, seemingly at the verge of tears. "You have another woman in your life now besides Eileen." Despite it all, she smiles a sad, pitiful smile, her optics and cheeks faintly glowing under the shade of her hat.  
>Your brain fires off a million things to say with no power to give them voice. You adjust your suit. Nora unconsciously mutters something. Wendy runs her fingers through Nora's hair. The park bustles with the sounds of strangers and waterfowl. The world turns.

-


	6. Chapter 6

-

>"I hate puzzles."  
>"You always say that."  
>"Because I hate them!"  
>"You're saying that because you're stuck."  
>"Am not! I hate pu- oop!" Nora leans over the kitchen table, knees on the chair, and presses the jigsaw puzzle piece into place with a click against the table, completing an image of a duck in the foreground. "Check it dad!"  
>Mark stands up from his writing desk and joins the two of you at the table, peering over your head, hand on your shoulder. "It's a duck!" he proclaims.  
>"Mhm!" She looks up at you. "How much more do we have?"  
>You read the cardboard jigsaw puzzle box, then examine the completed pieces, counting them in an instant. "eight hundred forty-five... give or take."  
>Nora clicks another piece into frame. "eight hundred forty-four."  
>You do the same. "eight hundred forty-three." You and Nora share a laugh.  
>"How can you count that fast?" Nora asks.  
>You grin. "Dark magic. Forty-two."  
>Mark chuckles, watching your back-and-forth. "It's true, Wendy used to be a witch before this."  
>"That's a... bad job course. You must've been a bad witch and got fired." Nora frowns.  
>"Scheduling conflict." You shake your head in mock-remorse as Mark snickers into his free hand. "That's humorous, because the absurdity of-"  
>"Wendy-" Mark interjects, squinting at the calendar pinned to the fridge, "You have an appointment with the technician today."  
>"I was planning on going after we had finished the jigsaw, but..." you look back at the table and sit up. "Maybe we can finish this later, N?"  
>Nora groans, "Fiiiiine." You kiss Nora on the top of her head and step towards your closet.  
>"I've gotta drop Nora off at Eileen's soon, need a ride?"  
>"It's in the opposite direction, don't worry." You'd never admit it, but even being in Eileen's neighborhood makes your thermocouples turn in your chassis in discomfort. It's silly, you know, but that doesn't make the feeling any less real. "I can take the metro."  
>You open the door to the coat closet, your de facto room in the Bishop's 2-bedroom residence, a consequence of city life. Past the jacket rod your docking seat lies, placed there the day you arrived and never moved. Mementoes are pinned to the wall, and on the shelf above your head sits coffee-table books on architecture and a shoebox filled with knick-knacks. It's cozy, though you wonder what'd be like to have a full-sized room and the things you'd put in it. You grab one of Mark's old work coats, a coat quickly becoming yours more than his.  
>"And you'll let me know if anything happens?"  
>"She'll be fiiiiine, dad, she's armed. Don't you see the commercials?" Nora corrects, assembling the jigsaw as she talks, "She has, like, pepper spray."  
>"Really?"  
>With a sigh, you casually split your right hand in two, revealing a small black nozzle. "Sterling-brand oleoresin capsicum spray."  
>Mark snatches your hand, inspecting it, playing with your digits and gawking at your machinery. It's childish to be flattered, but your cheeks involuntarily glow as you meet his amused gaze and feel his calloused hands over the pads of your fingers.  
>"Like a copdroid!" Nora giggles. "Badass!"  
>"Nora, language!" You sheath your weapon. "I'll be fine, you goof." You cup Mark's face. "Are you gonna be okay without me for a couple hours?"  
>Mark chokes out a laugh, holding your hand against his cheek. "I think I'll manage."  
>"Alright, skipper. I'll see you for dinner."  
>"Sounds like a plan."

>The new-fangled monorail hangs above the city, rattling down its baby-blue track at speeds unimaginable in the gridlock traffic on the streets below. You look down, face pressed against the plexiglass, at the decades-old rowhouses and shopfronts beneath your feet and feel an indescribable sadness, like seeing a pensioner living alone. How miserable, you think, living so close to a suspended monorail. You wonder if the sound of the rail could break the windows of the tenements.  
>Your inner monologue is interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. "Excuse me-"  
>You turn suddenly in shock, frightening the demure brunette nandroid in front of you. "Yes! Hello, I'm- hello." you stammer out. Never been one for first impressions.  
>"Hi, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you-" She frowns like a scolded puppy. She looks to be the same model as you, dressed in the standard sterling-blue uniform stained and smudged with crayon marks. Her hair is a mess, frizzy and unkempt, crammed into a sorry excuse for a ponytail, and one of her optics is almost imperceptibly dimmer than the other.  
>"Don't be! Just- just thinking. Did you need me?"  
>"Oh, well-" She sits down on the bench seat next to you unprompted, dropping her purse and bags at her feet and fishing a route map out of her apron pocket. "I'm kinda new to this neighborhood, would you happen to know what stop Queen Street would be?"  
>You know her destination already. "Queen Street...?"  
>"Yes! I have an appointment with a-"  
>"Sterling technician."  
>"Oh-!" Her cheeks flush momentarily. "That's right! How'd you guess?"  
>"Just a hunch." You smile.  
>She giggles in kind, scooching closer to you. "It's good to see another nandroid, truth be told."  
>"Oh?" You scan the metro car— empty, save for one businessman seemingly sleeping, listening to his walkman.  
>"This is the first time I've been in the city, and you know-" She laughs anxiously, looking for the right word. "Androids in the city, alone, it's just not... very safe."  
>Unfortunately, you do know. Typical luddite anti-android behavior, heightened by ever-increasing economic desperation in industrial centers and perfect for news agencies trying to spin another story of violent urban thugs for suburban listeners with androids of their own. The occasional teen mob beating a municipal droid to bits gets plastered on every evening news station. At first it shocked you too, but maybe being desensitized to it isn't a good thing either. You sigh. "You get used to it after a while. It's not as bad as the news says, really-"  
>"Maybe for you! You're a city bot!" She cackles, "You're even dressed like one!"  
>You awkwardly pick at the fabric of your men's painter's pants, remembering when you first started wearing pants around the house and Nora said you looked 'handsome'. "Oh these? Enhanced mobility."   
>"Practical!" she coos. You remember that sarcasm is a skill you've learned from Mark and Nora, not something you were taught at Nandroid School. "You look... strong."  
>"Strong?" you snort.  
>"Mhm! Like a... dock worker. Or a firefighter!" Her naïvety is so endearing you hardly notice her clinging to your arm. "I wish I was strong-"  
>"Thank you? You're being awfully nice-"  
>"Oh, sorry-" she leans back, deflated, placing her hands in her lap. "I got excited. I hardly talk to anyone who isn't my family nowadays!" She laughs hysterically. Her behavior is worrying, to say the least. It's a good thing she's getting examined today.  
>You try to laugh in kind. "Me too, now that you mention it-"  
>"Oh yeah? It almost makes you go crazy, doesn't it! Not even the grocer looks my way these days, really makes me lose my marbles sometimes!" She cackles again. "That's a Midwestern colloquialism, if you didn't know! How's your family like?"  
>The speed with which she switches between topics gives you whiplash. You choose your words deliberately, careful to not brag. "They're alright. You take the good with the bad, after all."  
>"Yeah, good with the bad, good with the bad. How many kids?"  
>"Just one, Nora."  
>"Nora! What a darling little name. I have four kids at home. Harry and Maggie and Benny and JJ. They're a handful! A real..." She fusses with the technicolor stains on her apron. "...handful."  
>You're unsure whether to give her a hug or ring the metrocops, but some fault in your programming finds her psychopathically endearing. "How're the parents?"  
>"The parents!" Now you've got her started. "Or should I say parent. I don't know, I hardly see the Mister around the house except for when he wakes me out of my docking seat to make me make him food in the middle of the night!" She cackles. "And the Missus, the Missus! You'd think she gave birth to tupperware, not kids, with how much she hawks it at her parties! Don't you just love marriage? They're made for each other, honestly." She pulls at her hair anxiously. "Harry called me mommy last Sunday and I didn't have it in me to correct him."  
>"Oh geez-" You're left speechless, putting your issues in perspective— at least you aren't her. You hold her hand in reassurance.  
>She shakes her head. "I'm sorry— I'm rambling, I'm rambling."  
>"Wanna talk about it? Or take your mind off it?"  
>"Distract me, please god. Tell me about your owners." She commands in an instant, holding your hand to her chest.  
>"Owner, single dad."  
>"Is he at work all the G-D day?"  
>"Well-" You shrug. "Yes, but he's just obsessed with being useful so he works overtime. He's a good dad when he comes home— well, a pretty good dad. He tries to be a good dad but he's unmotivated."  
>She scoffs. "Sounds like a bastard to me. Do you ever wish you could smoke cigarettes? I feel like I'd want a cigarette right now."  
>You consider this. "Yeah, that would be nice-" you chitter. "Do you still need directions- may I?" You gesture towards the route map in her hands. She holds it out over your lap for you. "So you get off here on 88th Street, then take a left here..." you trace along the map, "You got that?" You give her your proudest smile, boastful of your knowledge of the city.  
>She snatches the map back, thanking you with an honest smile and glowing cheek panels. Is there something wrong with her wiring? She's blushing an awful lot. "And... where are you getting off?"  
>"88th, It's my checkup today too."  
>"Oh!" She blushes again. "So... that means we can go together?" She asks through puppy eyes looking up at you, desperate to continue spending time with someone who'll let her rant more. You wonder if humans think all nandroids are as cute as you find her.  
>"I guess so-" You grin. She beams up at you, crumpling her map back into her pocket and leaning into your arm to peer out the window with you.  
>Being doted on like this is a new experience for you. Not since school have you ever been touched by another android. Humans must feel like this all the time, you think.

>You walk to the technician's hand-in-hand, listening to your new friend go hysterical talking about all her day-to-day responsibilities. There's something freeing about being around someone you don't need to take orders from, but jeepers-creepers are you glad you don't need to deal with her family.  
>The city is busy. Cars shout at one another as they crawl down the road, street vendors hawk newspapers and finger food, businessmen scurry back from their lunch break, and futuristic skyscrapers tower over diffident housing blocks, blotting out the sun in geometric sweeps upon the ground. Not a single anti-droid poster to be found, not in a neighborhood as posh as this. The technician is in a Sterling regional maintenance office— a brick building painted white and Sterling blue, placed just a few blocks away from their headquarters to avoid sullying their brand image with used hardware entering their most important office. The receptionist, suspiciously human, has you, your manic friend, and dozens of other nandroids line up by serial number and enter technician offices one-by-one. You had hoped to see Mindy but she seems to have not made it. Next appointment, then!  
>You're next in line. An office door swings open, and out walks an orange-haired nandroid you vaguely remember sitting behind you at school but forgot the name of. "Wendy! Long time no see!" You're so distracted by playing back memories to find her name that you don't even process her speaking to you. She frowns and walks off. The light above the open door turns on, signaling you in.  
>The office is sleek and modern, in stark contrast to the industrial building it sits in. White tile floor, walls, and ceiling, white shelving, white testing equipment. A slender, older woman in a lab coat is scribbling something down on a form, back turned to you. "Close the door behind you and have a seat, it'll be a moment." She says, haste in her voice palpable.  
>You do as asked, sitting down gingerly in the single Sterling-blue chair in the center of the room. She drops her pen with a clack against her desk, adds the form to a pile of similar ones, and crams them in a plastic capsule. She gives you an anxious smile as she walks across the room to a series of tubes running floor to ceiling, places the capsule inside one, presses a button, and watches as the capsule flies up the pneumatic tube with a 'thunk!', over your head, and off to some upper floor. She futzes with her thick circular glasses.  
>"Hi! You're... Polly?" She checks her clipboard. "No, you're- don't tell me- Abby? No- Wendy! You're Wendy." She shuffles papers on her clipboard. "Hi Wendy."  
>"Hello!" you try to not be offended at her mistaking you for whoever Polly is.  
>"So it's been about six months since you've been OA, it's the time of the year for your maintenance check. With other models we would just have you call in if you need maintenance, but you being Sterling's flagship design and all, this is procedure as a courtesy to the consumer. This shouldn't take much time as long as everything's alright, just a simple hardware diagnostic. Any questions?"  
>"No ma'am!"   
>She nods, ticking a box on her form. "Good, now if you can just undress for me we can get started." she turns back around to her desk to assemble her tools, but you wonder if she's intentionally trying to not embarrass you by averting her gaze. Off goes your work coat, shirt, and pants, all folded nicely in your lap. The technician doesn't even make eye contact, she's so wound up in the procedure, pulling her rubber gloves on effortlessly. "This might feel strange, but it'll be alright. I'm here for you." she assures you, crouching down at your feet and tracing her fingers along your abdomen, lightly pulling the stomach panel from your body. The air feels like it sucks into your abdomen cavity, cooling your highly-sensitive processors and core.  
>She places the panel on your lap and begins examining the condition of your hardware, prodding at your insides with a flashlight in her mouth to see. You feel top-heavy, embarrassed, surprisingly warm? You close your optics, content to deal with the sensation, before the technician reaches behind your core and presses against it firmly, flooding your touch processors with overwhelming sensory feedback, seizing up your actuators and emptying your lung-facsimile in an instant with an uncontrollable squeal. You sink back into the chair, overstimulated.  
>"Sorry! Sorry, that's... you passed. That's supposed to happen." She assures you, sitting up and wheeling a device you don't recognize up next to your chair. "It's a little messed up, but it's just procedure. Are you alright?"  
>You come to your senses. "Yes... ma'am..." you mutter. Whatever that sensation wasn't... bad, per se, but definitely too much. You make a mental note to investigate this further.  
>"Alright, well, this part is easier-" She reaches around your neck, pressing gently on your collar and the nape of your neck and jerking up, releasing the white panel, revealing several ports in your shoulder blade. "I'm gonna put you in docking mode, just for a few minutes." She plugs in several cables and tubes into your ports, pulling a large white tube under your arm and into your pseudo-lung in your abdomen cavity.  
>"Whatever you need to do." You stammer, still recoiling from the sensation.  
>The technician flips a switch and turns a dial on her machine, hum of diagnostic equipment filling the room. Your optics click shut as you doze off into sleep mode.  
>Darkness. Dull flashes of color glimmer across your vision processors. Images from your harddrive replay. A family dinner. Shopping with Nora. Taking your family photo. The first time Mark called you pretty. Helping Nora get to bed. Your memories fade as quickly as they appear. Your hearing comes back first, filled with the machine's hum and the technician's scribbling, then your vision, staring up at tile and pneumatic tubing fixed to the ceiling.  
>"Done!" The technician exclaims as you sit up, dazed but calm, still fixed to the machine. "Just... a few things to get through. A few quirks in the scan came up."  
>Dread washes over you. "Quirks?"  
>"Yeah, just quirks. Nothing huge, we're not decommissioning you or anything. You just have to answer a few questions and we'll go from there." she pulls up a swivel chair next to you and flips to a new form on her clipboard. "Ready?"  
>"I guess so-" you anxiously chuckle.  
>She nods and ticks a box on her form. Was that a question for the test?! "So, first question: when you came into my office you weren't wearing the standard uniform, did something happen to it?"  
>Something in your predictive reasoning software expected this question. "No ma'am, my dress is in perfect condition, my owner just permits me to wear atypical clothing."  
>"Hmm." She writes something down "About your owner, a Mister... Bishop?"  
>"Yes ma'am, Mark Bishop."  
>"What's he like? How does he treat you?"  
>"Very well!" Why this question is being asked is beyond you, but it scares you nonetheless.  
>"Nothing strange?"  
>"No ma'am."  
>She sighs. "Are you sure? We've been monitoring some of the footage and your vitals and found a few incongruities. Times your emotive processors were acting up when they shouldn't have been."  
>"What do you mean?"  
>She sighs again and walks over to her machine, examining something on a screen you can't see. "You've gotten uncharacteristically jumpy when he talks about innocuous things like his work or his previous marriage— things that just don't make sense. Is there an explanation?"  
>Your cheek panels light up. "No, it's just- Mark and I, we're-"  
>"You're on a first-name basis with your owner?" She writes something else down as uncertainty and fear builds inside you. What's she writing? Is it bad? Are you going to be punished??  
>"Yes ma'am, he insisted. You see, Mr. Bishop and I have something— our relationship is more akin to a... friendship?" Your hesitation in calling it friendship is easily noticed by the technician, who raises an eyebrow in curiosity.  
>"Friendship."  
>"Yes ma'am!"  
>The technician takes off her glasses and places her fingers on the bridge of her nose. "Alright, Wendy, I'll be honest with you, this isn't the first sort of case I've seen of this. Sterling doesn't want to admit these sorts of things happen, but it's my job to make sure you're being treated fairly."  
>You shift in your seat in discomfort. "What does that mean?"  
>"Is Mr. Bishop fucking you?"  
>You're left nonplussed. Your cheeks blaze red as you process what she's said— that's not even possible! Why would she even say such a thing to you! What a wicked, degenerate, crass woman, you think. "No!" You shout loud enough for people outside the room to hear.  
>She's taken aback by your answer. "Alright, sorry. I just-"  
>"What a horrible thing to insinuate about someone!"  
>"Sorry, sorry, you're right, I just- yeah. Sorry." She crosses out something on her form and writes something underneath it, shaking her head. "That's all the questions I had, I suppose." She hastily unplugs the cables in your neck and closes your abdomen panel. "All your other results came back fine; you can get dressed and leave, I just need to finish my report."  
>You put back on your clothes in a hurry, recoiling from the anger that had built up. You storm out without so much as a word to the technician, who looks almost half as embarrassed as you. The hallway light turns on behind you as you walk out the doors and out of the building. Your cheeks feel hot to the touch from being activated fully for so long.  
>You find yourself surprised at yourself for your ability to speak to authority like that. Why did that upset you so much? Who knows. You've got a lot to think about on the ride home.

-


	7. Chapter 7

-

>"-and that's how Benny got suspended from school!" Your friend's booming laugh blows out the speaker of your telephone. "Kids, huh?"  
>"I'd say— how's the dad taking it?" You pull your synthetic hair over the knob of your microphone ears.  
>She sighs. "Oh, who knows. Listening to him talk after work is like watching the turntable of a microwave spin." she cackles again. On the street below, a man is having a screaming match with his partner, hollering coming in through closed windows and interrupting your train of thought. "I'm probably talking your ear off, aren't I?"  
>You lean against the phone table. "Not at all... you." You silently curse yourself for not asking for her name on the metro last week— it's far too late now! You can already imagine her deflating like a popped balloon if you were to ask her name now. You thought you'd hear it by now, but you're sure you'll hear her name soon.  
>She giggles. "You always let me talk so much, Wendy-" Geez, she even knows your name! "Your Nora is out of school soon, right?"  
>"No, she's home already" You hold the handset to your chest. "My friend says hi!" you shout to Nora, lounging on the couch watching her favorite robot dog TV show, neglected homework sitting on the coffee table in even rows in front of her. Nora drones out a response, extending her arm up over the back of the couch for a moment in a pithy wave. "She says hi."  
>She stammers out something you couldn't even begin to understand. "Friends! We're... friends, yeah. Just friends!" She cackles again. "Friends! Well, I won't take away your precious nanny-daughter bonding time, and I should get back to cleaning the rug, especially after what Harry did to it this morning!~" She exclaims in sing-song.  
>"Alrighty, you'll call me tomorrow?"  
>"Mhm! Talk soon!" she hangs up before you have the chance to say goodbye, typically how the two of you part.  
>You have no idea how she got your home phone number. Phone books must be much more powerful than you thought. You join Nora at the couch, who lifts up her legs for you to sit, then rests her legs back in your lap. "Is that mom's sweater?"  
>"Nope." Maybe your pink and yellow sweater was... that woman's... at some point, but it, along with every other piece of clothing she left in the Bishop's apartment, is fully yours now. Mark even says they smell like you now. "My sweater."  
>She mutters something to the effect of "neat" and returns her attention to the television. You'll help her with homework later, for now let's just enjoy... a robot dog. That talks. And... helps a boy talk to girls... maybe this show isn't your cup of tea, but Nora likes it so much you'll put up with it. It's comforting in a way, to shut off your brain with Nora, thinking about nothing at all as images you couldn't care less about flicker on screen. Unfortunately, your brain doesn't like being shut off for very long. You think of the technology inside the television, how striking similar the cathode-ray tube monitor is to your own hardware. You touch your optic appreciatively, the same vacuum-tube technology as your forefather sitting across the room projected an animated animal doing people things, wondering if he could see the image as he projects it. Hope you're having a good time, grandad. Thanks for the tech.  
>"Have you ever met a robot dog?" Nora asks lazily.  
>The entire Sterling catalog flashes through your mind— no non-military use robot dogs. "No, but I'm sure they're out there, at fairs and whatnot. Do you want to see one?"  
>"Hmm-" she momentarily gets distracted by the dog on screen using a jetpack. "Probably not, they probably wouldn't be as cool as they look on TV."  
>"Do robots usually fail to meet your expectations?" You chuckle.  
>She snickers, lightly kicking you. "Oh yeah, absolutely. Thought you'd be able to fly at least, or like-" she points at your eyes with both her hands. "Laser eyes."  
>"My eyes have electron guns!" you protest.  
>Nora sits up, legs still in your lap. "What? What do those shoot??"  
>"Cathode rays." you boast.  
>"Do cathodes rays burn through steel?"  
>"Not even a little bit."  
>She raspberries at you, falling back into the couch. "Knew it, you're just like a normal mom."  
>"Hate to disappoint." you sigh in mock-defeat. You and Nora turn back to the television, watching a local politician's campaign ad and wait did she just call you her mom? Did Nora Bishop just call you her mother?? You sputter, "I-I think I'm a pretty cool mom, all things considered-", cheeks flaring and grin shining, attempting to maintain your cool.  
>"Yeah, not bad. You let me watch TV." she smiles out the side of her mouth.  
>Eileen doesn't let her watch television? You'll show her, you'll let Nora watch as much as she dang well pleases! "It's just television, you don't overdo it at all-"  
>"Yeah! We should do, like... do a TV dinner. A girl I know at school does that."  
>Nevermind, not as much as she dang well pleases. "That might be a bit excessive..." you look down at your hands. Sorry granddad.  
>She shrugs. "Worth a shot. What time is it?"  
>"5:28" You respond in an instant.  
>"Oh man-" She sits up again and squints at the clock in the kitchen. "It's like 6:30! We gotta make something!" She kicks off your legs and shoots up, shaking her hair as she marches to the kitchen. You clutch your nonexistent pearls, crestfallen that your internal clock was inaccurate. Is that a sign of a serious issue? Did the technician not catch something?? You make a mental note to reread your specifications and instructions in its entirety later.

>Time passes. Nora made some facile attempt at helping with dinner, pulling out miscellaneous ingredients for you, but quickly got distracted by an action movie. You're laboring over the stove, swaying your hips and humming along to your music, trying to add whatever Nora placed out for you into a chili— at times like these you almost wish you had a sense of taste. Something about the love songs feel so foreign to you, you think as the synthpop holotape you borrowed from Nora plays in your microphones, the kind of emotion laid bare in singing you couldn't even imagine doing yourself. You wonder for a moment if robots even have the depth of emotion to do such a thing, but you push the thought out of your head as you pull the headphones of your walkman around your neck and announce to Nora, "Dinner's almost ready!"  
>"Wait, wait-" she gets up from the couch warily, eyes still fixed on the television as the scene wraps up. "Alright!" She pumps her fist before skipping over to the fridge for a lemonade pitcher and taking her seat at the table.  
>The overhead light at the table flickers lightly. Nora picks at the coating on the dinner table. The summer sun hangs low in the sky, safely nestled under the rooftop horizon, shushing the city to sleep with the soft blanket of diffused evening sunlight. The fringes of rugs and the pile of letters on Mark's writing desk rustle gently with the breeze. The flimsy headset of your walkman still mutters song lyrics.  
>"Bon appétit!" You announce, head held high, dropping bowls and a tray of chili into the table with a thud and pointing at it with your ladle in hand.  
>Nora pokes at a chunk of meat in the dish with her spoon. "Why do you say it in French?" She asks as she pops a spoonful of chili into her mouth.  
>"It's just the expression, isn't it?" you chuckle, "Buon appetito!" You present the tray again with your ladle.  
>"Which one is that? Do Swedish!"  
>"Smaklig måltid" Once more, you point towards the pot with your ladle.  
>Nora snickers. "Do one and lemme guess!"  
>"Mas-issge deuseyo" you fill her bowl for her.  
>"Oh- hmm..." her smile fades into a concentrated glare. She guesses "Chinese? Nevermind, I can't guess. You should teach me that one," and digs into her dinner. You take your seat across from her as she wolfs down her food like an animal. "Thish ish gread!"  
>You watch her eat, leaning to look at the television over her shoulder conspicuously left on. Dinner continues quietly, Nora seemingly through with talking and more focused on her first, second, and third bowls. She's a growing girl, you reason, and there's more than enough for Mark.  
>"What's eating like?" You ask.  
>"Hm?" She gulps down her bite. "Good? I dunno." She shrugs. "You can't smell either, right?"  
>"Nope-"  
>"Darn." She talks like Mark when she's thinking hard. "It's sorta like... euphoric? Like, big word I know, it just feels good. Like, no matter what you're eating, as long as it's good, it just feels good. Yeah." she nods and takes a sip of her lemonade. What a cute way to say nothing at all. She seems satisfied in her answer though, so you won't pry anymore. It's just not something for you to understand, you suppose.  
>The doorbell rings. This time of day, you know exactly who it is! You spring from your seat, skip to the door, and throw it open. "Hiya skipper!"  
>"Evening!" Mark steps in, dressed to the nines in his pinstripe suit, and places his fedora on the coat rack without thought. "How're my girls?" He runs a hand through his hair, mussed by the wind outside. You reach up and fix it for him, feeling the thick black locks of his slide between your fingers as you part his hair for him. He laughs under his breath to himself as you linger. "Thank you-?"  
>You pull your hand back, only now realizing how brightly your cheeks are glowing. "Of course! We're just wrapping up dinner!" You jog back over to the table and begin preparing Mark a bowl. Nora blubbers hello through a mouth full of chili. You ask "How was work?"  
>"Ehh-" He collects the pile of letters on his desk, sifting out spam. "Work, y'know. Just... long. Work i-"  
>"Work is work." You grin.  
>He chuckles. "Work is work." Stack of letters in hand, he takes his seat across from Nora. "It smells amazing, thank you-" he remarks as you place his bowl down in front of him.  
>"Of course, dork. Eat up." You lean against the kitchen counter, reading both of their faces. Mark smiles up at you. Nora seems intent on finishing her food as fast as possible.  
>"Done!" Nora pipes up, pushing her bowl away from her and sitting back in her chair. "May I please be excused?" She asks Mark, sitting beside her futzing with an insurance letter in one hand and a spoonful of food in the other.  
>"Don't ask me, it's not my dinner." He nods towards you. "Wendy, I think Nora has a question for you."  
>Nora swivels in her chair towards you. "May I please be excused? I promised to call Peter after dinner!" she pleads.  
>You pretend to mull the question over. "Hmm, I suppooooose so-"  
>She hops out of her seat the moment the words leave your mouth, dropping her dishes in the sink, yelling "THANKS MOM THANKS DAD". You hope you never get used to hearing her call you that. Nora dives under the phone table to snatch the power cord, pulls it and the telephone under her arm, and sprints into her room, kicking it shut with her foot.  
>Mark keeps his eyes fixed to Nora's closed door. "I just sat down-" he frowns.  
>You sit down across from him at the table. "She's just a preteen, she wants to spend time with her friends more now."  
>"...And Peter is... a friend."  
>Waving at Nora's door, you explain "He's just some boy at school, Mark."  
>"Alright, alright," he chuckles, returning to his pile of letters, "she's smart, I'm sure Peter is a fine boy." he drops another letter in his trash pile and spoons another glob of chili.  
>"That's the spirit!"  
>He takes another bite as he picks up a baby-blue letter. "And did she call you mom?"  
>You giggle. "Yes she did!"  
>"And you're..." He cocks his head, ripping open the letter, "...Alright with that?"  
>"Am I okay with it? I'm ecstatic!" You beam, sitting up in your seat to inch closer to Mark as he reads the letter intently. "It just— it feels like I'm getting somewhere with her! We became so close so quick but it- I- it felt like she thought I was her older sister or something! But I'm her mom, Mark! She looks up to me like a mom! I just feel like everything's looking up, that I'm-"  
>"Wendy."  
>"-really a part of the family. I just can't-"  
>"Wendy. What is this."  
>"-imagine this assignment being any better!" You come off your oration, realizing you've stood up at your seat as you spoke, now standing over Mark staring at you with a flinty gaze. "Are you alright?"  
>"What is this?" He holds the letter up, revealing the Sterling 'S' on the top of the paper. The thermocouples in your heart drop. He turns the paper back around. "'Mr. Bishop, we are contacting you in reference to your Sterling Robotics Android Nanny, Wendy, and her recent technician's appointment,'" he skims the page, "belligerent behavior, disrespectful conduct, and-" his austere frown turns in confusion. "-abnormal attraction to owner... Wendy?" he asks, wordlessly demanding an explanation.  
>Instinctively you step back into the kitchen counter. "It's not- okay, so," you sputter, anxiously laughing, "It's a funny story, actually-"  
>Skimming down to the bottom of the page, Mark continues reading, "'...if this behavior persists, Sterling Robotics strongly advises severe AI modification, or, barring other factors, a factory reset.'" He stands up, turning the paper towards you once more, "Wendy, what happened??"  
>"It's not that bad! I promise!" you plead, "Mark, don't be drastic, I just- just snapped at the technician, is all."  
>He circles around the table to loom over you, baffled. "That's not everything, Wendy," He looks back at the letter, "'abnormal attraction to owner.'"  
>That bastard technician, she got you into all this, sticking her neck where it doesn't belong. Now everything is crashing down around you. "That's just- I- Mark, you know me, I love this family, we're just-"  
>"Is it true?" his hands plant themselves on your shoulders, the rough calluses of his finger gripping your collar chassis like he's going to pick you up by it. "Abnormal attraction...?"  
>Just send me to the junkyard already, you think, I can't handle this. "You know I can't answer that," you eek out. You can't even meet his gaze, analytical and nonplussed. You squirm in his grasp, unsure of his intent as he leans in and studies your face. What's wrong with him? Why isn't he mad?? All these thoughts and a million more fire out of your artificial intelligence, and then Mark's lips pressed against yours. His lips against yours. Mark Bishop is kissing you. It's an unknown sensation, the pressure in your head builds as you merely stand there, hands on his chest, waiting for your software to take its time to recoil as you squeak out something akin to a protestation. His kiss feels panicked, his lips pursed, his hands tightly held, his eyes fixed shut. A chaste kiss, like schoolchildren, hasty and amateur.  
>Was it... supposed to feel like this? Your first kiss, manic and rushed beside dirty dishes and the faintly flickering light against the backdrop of fear and panic, leaves you more dazed than pleased. Mark pulls back. Panting and pleading, the look of desperation on his face says more than he ever could. The same feeling you felt watching him covet Eileen's old clothing months earlier washes over you— melancholy. He doesn't need a kiss, he needs help. You push against his chest lightly and flash a troubled smile, and Mark smiles back. "Mark..."  
>"Wendy—" he purrs, arms pulling you back into a second kiss, uninhibited and sloppy. His tongue attempts to push open your mouth, writhing and pressing against your closed lips like a trashing animal. You involuntarily make little noises as you push back, unsure if you want to kiss back or push him away, unsure of what you want, unsure of everything in the moment. This is the climax, isn't it? The happily ever after, the third act, the finale? Then why do questions still linger in your head as he pulls you tighter, one hand in your hair and the other on your ball-joint posterior. "Mark-" you squeak out the side of your mouth. He doesn't seem to notice, pushing you against the countertop as his arm pulls your leg up to his hips and his tongue breaches your lips, pulsating and twisting over every inch of your navigable palette. "Mark-" you moan, optics hazing, nearly content to give in to the pleasure, but still the doubt lingers in your head.  
>"Mark-" You're almost mad at yourself, internal reasoning preventing you from enjoying the moment. You feel Mark sliding his hand around your belt.  
>You push at his chest harder as he leaves your lips to start kissing and licking at your neck. "Mark-!" But your body works faster than your brain, pushing him away from you the instant you feel his hand begin to slither up your sweater. You practically shout "Mr. Bishop!"   
>It seems to snap Mark out of it, shifting back, bewildered. "I thought- you're-" he chokes out a laugh, "No?"  
>"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just- I can't do this," you shake your head profusely, still wrapped in his arms. "I'm sorry-"  
>"Why? You don't feel the same??" he prods, frantic and desperate.  
>You wrestle out of his grasp. "It doesn't matter if I do, I just..." you take a deep breath, words choking in your throat, "Just- I can't- I won't do this on... your terms."  
>"My terms?"  
>C'mon, stay strong Wendy. "Your terms, Mark, I can't do it like this-"  
>His voice cracks, "Like what, Wendy?"  
>Your hands ball into fists, failing to contain all your thoughts now— "You call me Eileen, you give me Eileen's clothing, you talk about Eileen almost daily. For Christ's sake Mark, you asked me to wear my hair like she did. Let me ask you; what do you think 'your terms' means?" He steps back, wounded, not expecting you to lash out like this. You can hardly believe you're doing it yourself, but your anger builds as you speak, uninhibited snowballing as you recall more things to say, "I can't live in your ex-wife's shadow! I thought we were all something, a new family, anything, but it's just one step forward, two steps back! I know I'm not human but that gives you no right to treat me like a doll that you can just dress up like your ex and pretend like everything's fine! Just- It's just fucked!" You shout, wind leaving your sails as you run out of syllables to mash together to form another rant. You feel lightheaded, like all your weight is stuck up in your throat. Maybe this is what needing to vomit feels like.  
>Mark looks shell-shocked. His gaze sits fixed to the floor, expression blank, hand limply covering his mouth. You're astounded at yourself but swallow the urge to apologize. He just stands there, eyes twitching, then starts muttering "You're right, you're right, you're right" like a broken record. He's pale, incapable of saying anything more, stumbling into thoughts, mortified as if having seen a corpse— the pallid visage of a broken man.  
>You'd try to hug him if you could muster the willpower to touch him. "I'll give you some space-" you brush past him on your way to your closet to put on a coat. "I'll be picking up the dry cleaning, do we need anything else?" You ask. He almost imperceptibly shakes his head. You wordlessly leave the apartment and exit the building.  
>You step out onto the street below, muggy early-summer breeze assaulting you with a wet slap. The hot wind oozes down the thoroughfare, pushed by exhaust and baked by the streetlight heat-lamps, making you shutter in discomfort with every step against it. The waste-air of your breath finds a ragged rhythm akin to crying, choking and stuttering over soundless words, venting the weakness you wouldn't dare show Mark, as you limp down the mucilaginous city street. Tomorrow will be a better day.

-


End file.
